


will you meet me more than halfway there

by sublime_jumbles



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Accidental Overeating, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Online Dating, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Asexual Jack Zimmermann, Awkward Jack Zimmermann, Bisexual Jack Zimmermann, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Body Dysmorphia, Body Dysphoria, Body Image, Chubby Jack Zimmermann, Comfort Food, Demisexual Jack Zimmermann, Disordered Eating, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, First Meetings, Food Issues, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Isolation, Light Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Online Dating, POV Jack Zimmermann, Pen Pals, Romantic Fluff, Sad Jack Zimmermann, Social Anxiety, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, i never write AUs! i don't know how to tag them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24152629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublime_jumbles/pseuds/sublime_jumbles
Summary: Jack has become sort of a hermit after destroying his knee and his career (in that order), but a dating app, serious blizzard conditions, and blueberry crumb muffins might be the things that change that.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 29
Kudos: 246





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the timeline of this fic is ... super handwavey. "it's been long enough for him to get chubby" is the official metric i used. also, i don't know much about hockey, serious knee injuries, or what flowers are in season when, so i've taken some liberties. i feel like there was something else i took liberties with but i can't remember what it was so if something seems factually inaccurate, it was that.
> 
> the lil app is based on lex, a queer dating app that's modeled after personal ads!
> 
> big thanks as always to wy for beta-ing and fielding my questions!!
> 
> title from "clearest blue" by chvrches.
> 
> cws for: body image issues and negative body thoughts/talk, disordered eating, mentions of anxiety, and a blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to jack not doing well with prescription meds. i've put a couple of resources for eating disorders and substance abuse in the endnotes if you or someone you know is struggling.

Jack wakes up from a deeply unsettling dream in which he has somehow become the spokesperson for a baffling diet product called Jack Slimmermann and lays, barely awake, blinking at the ceiling. He slides a hand beneath the covers and checks to see if his belly was part of the dream, too, but it’s still here, soft and plump and spilling out of his worn-out sleep t-shirt. He shifts his hips, sighs. He should leave the house today. If his subconscious is thinking that much about diets, it’s time to get out and clear his head.

Jack … has not left the house much in the past couple of months. He’s gone out for essentials, tried to take the odd walk around the block, but his bad knee twinges if he puts his weight on it too long. Plus, it’s freezing out and his truck has been buried under feet of snow for at least a week, and the ongoing blizzard conditions have him unreasonably anxious about slipping on ice and damaging his knee further. It’s bad enough he can’t play hockey anymore, that he still needs to wear the knee brace if he’s going to be on his feet long. He doesn’t think he can handle anything more than that.

He  _ could  _ use the gym in the basement, do some low-impact exercises to at least keep his strength up, but Jack is discovering, in his definitely-not-self-imposed isolation, that while he’s always prided himself on being an “all or nothing” kind of person, it turns out that that’s a very different trait when the gear you’re stuck in is  _ nothing  _ rather than  _ all _ .

His phone buzzes on his nightstand, and he rolls over to grab it, feeling his belly slope to the side with the movement. He makes a grumbling little sound and sucks in before settling onto his stomach and checking his notifications.

But the sourness of the dream vanishes when he sees the string of new messages on Lil. 

Jack is categorically opposed to most dating apps, because he has a hard time connecting with new people as it is, and it’s tough being demi and flipping through picture after picture and feeling a profound stream of  _ nothing  _ because he knows absolutely zip about these people. But this one, Lil —  _ tell us a “lil” about yourself _ , says the tagline — that he heard his teammates talking about, way back before his knee and before the end of his career and before his accidental self-exile, doesn’t have pictures. It’s set up like old-timey personal ads, and even though Jack barely interacts with anyone, he likes seeing what people have to say. It almost feels like socializing. Almost.

The one person he  _ does  _ interact with is SouthernSweetness15 —  _ Bitty  _ — a guy whose apparent allergy to sending fewer than three messages at a time makes Jack feel a little more like he’s part of a functioning social circle. They’ve been talking for a little over a month now, and Jack thinks, against his will, that he’s developing a little bit of a crush on the guy. Not enough that they’ve exchanged their actual names, but, you know, enough for someone he’s never seen but knows almost every detail of his day-to-day.

Today’s messages detail the blueberry crumb muffins Bitty baked for breakfast, the email copy he has to write for his marketing job, and his lamentation that they’re due for yet another ice storm tomorrow. Because the app is location-based, Jack knows that Bitty must be  _ somewhere _ in his city, and that he moved recently, but they haven’t discussed exactly where. Jack doesn’t triangulate about his location, his job, or anything Bitty could Google to find out that he’s that hockey player who completely annihilated his left knee and his career all in one awful, awful check. 

_ I’m kind of worried about the guy across the hall from me _ , says Bitty’s second-to-last message.  _ I don’t think he’s left his apartment in weeks. Maybe I should ding-dong-ditch him with some muffins and see if he’s alive. _

Jack’s stomach clenches up a little.  _ Maybe he’s away _ , he says, feeling like he should defend the guy. Social exiles have to stick together. At least Jack  _ does  _ leave his apartment. Sometimes.  _ Can’t blame him for jetting off to a warmer climate, eh? _

_ I guess _ , says Bitty.  _ I might leave some muffins anyway, though. This recipe made way too many to eat by myself _ .

Jack likes knowing that Bitty, wherever in the city he is, is alone too. He mentions friends from time to time, but he seems to live alone, and he’s been working from home a lot due to the vicious winter weather, and even though their situations aren’t remotely comparable, Jack likes to think of them as being the same, sort of. Two lonely guys just looking to connect.

Yeah, he  _ really  _ needs to get out of the house.

But that takes so much  _ effort _ .

Instead, Jack rolls out of bed, pulls on a hoodie that was once too large for him and is now in danger of exposing the very bottom of his belly. He brushes his teeth, avoids the mirror, makes coffee.  _ What should I have for breakfast?  _ he texts Bitty, because Bitty will want a picture and that will guarantee that Jack will make something, and making something at least  _ sort of  _ guarantees that he’ll eat it. 

Eating has gotten  _ weird  _ since he left hockey behind him. Six thousand calories a day as a semi-professional hockey player was normal. Encouraged, even. Six thousand calories a day as a civilian has added six inches to his waistline. He’s sure his meds don’t help, or his total lack of exercise,  _ or  _ his lifelong body image issues, but any way you slice it, it’s getting uncomfortably easy to slip between the conviction that nothing matters anymore as long as he’s shoving  _ something _ in his face, and the conviction that missing a few meals won’t hurt him and might actually make his clothes fit a little better. 

At least on his hockey diet he didn’t have to make any decisions. Everything he consumed had already been mapped out for him, and not eating meant the risk of passing out, injury, catastrophe. Now not eating doesn’t mean anything. 

_ What would *you* make me for breakfast?  _ he asks, and Bitty wastes no time in texting back:

_ Well, since you said you’re Canadian, I assume you can appreciate a good maple syrup. All the blueberry pancakes you could eat, plus potatoes and bacon for some savory balance. Do you prefer hash browns or home fries? Bacon IN your home fries?  _

_ You’d make me fat _ , Jack sends, even though it feels disingenuous.  _ You’d make me fatter  _ would be more truthful. 

_ Nothing wrong with that, sweetheart _ , says Bitty, and Jack almost has to sit down. The term of endearment, for one thing, hits him right behind the knees, not to mention the possibility that Bitty might — that Bitty might not — 

He’s been worrying so much about what will happen if they ever meet up. If he’ll have to watch Bitty’s face fall in real time when he realizes that Jack isn’t the muscular, athletic guy he’s built up in his head. The one Jack never dissuaded him from thinking he might be. If he’ll have to start the process of getting to know someone from scratch all over again because Bitty doesn’t like how he looks as an ex-jock with a taste for junk food. 

But he lets himself exhale a little bit. Maybe Bitty doesn’t care. Maybe he, like Jack, just sort of views bodies as auxiliary to the person inside them when it comes to romantic prospects. Jack wishes  _ desperately  _ that he could be that kind of person for himself, too. The kind of person who could look at his body in the mirror and think,  _ Nothing wrong with that _ .

He wonders if Bitty is fat, too. He certainly seems to bake a lot of things with frightening amounts of butter.

_ I would let you _ , Jack types out, deletes, types out again. Maybe he should eat something first and then see if he feels the same way.

— 

Jack eats way too much.

Which is a pattern he keeps falling into. He knows he’s supposed to eat until he’s full, or whatever, but his body is still so used to needing a tremendous amount of food to work properly that he can’t help but go overboard. “Eat until you’re full” gets dicey when  _ full  _ has always meant  _ a certain number of calories  _ and not  _ do you still feel hungry _ . 

He makes a bowl of oatmeal according to the directions on the box and loads it with banana and peanut butter. It takes about five minutes to eat and is profoundly unsatisfying, so he makes another. And some toast. And a big bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. And more toast. 

_ Then  _ he’s so full that his stomach hurts. One of these days he’ll get it right. 

Bitty has a meeting, so Jack slumps on the couch with a couple of blankets and balances his laptop on his stomach, hoping its heat will soothe the ache. He burps, which hurts  _ more _ , and groans. God. 

_ I ate too much _ , he texts Bitty, then deletes it, then retypes it. If he sits with it by himself for too long, he’ll start beating himself up about it, but Bitty is always gentler with him than Jack can be with himself.  _ Gonna take a nap and see if it helps. Good luck with your meeting, let me know how it goes. _

When he wakes up from his nap, he has another string of messages from Bitty waiting:  _ Whew! That meeting was more useless than selling eggs to a hen. But I did duck out and leave my neighbor some muffins! Keeping a close eye on his door *eyes emoji* Is your stomach feeling better? _

Jack’s stomachache has subsided some, but everything else in him clenches up as his feelings for Bitty’s mysterious recluse neighbor shift from solidarity to what feels suspiciously like jealousy. He doesn’t want Bitty laying his affections on that guy, delivering baked goods and hoping for a glimpse of him from across the hall. There can only be  _ one  _ mysterious recluse in Bitty’s life, he grumbles to himself as he straightens up on the couch to see if it helps his back, which just hurts sometimes now. Jack isn’t sure if it’s a side effect of his belly, his hockey career, or the number of days he’s spent in this exact position on the couch. 

_ It’s better now _ , he texts Bitty grumpily, rearranging the pillows behind him.  _ Sorry about your meeting. Are you working from home the rest of the week for the storm?  _

His radiator begins sputtering and hissing in the corner, his signal that the temperature in the room has dropped below fifty-five, and he glances out the window. It’s starting to snow again, not hard just yet, but urgently enough that Jack decides that if he’s going to go out, it needs to be now, when the salt on the sidewalks is fresh and the snow hasn’t obscured last week’s black ice. Reluctantly, he rolls off the couch and heads to his bedroom, trying to calculate what he needs to pick up to see him through at least another week of storm conditions.

_ I am! Are YOU working from home, mister?  _ asks Bitty, and Jack’s heart swells at his concern. And the pet names, again.  _ I know you like to be secretive, but please at least tell me you won’t be out and about in this craziness _ .

_ I won’t _ , Jack reassures him.  _ I’m going to duck out for some groceries now, but I’ll be home the rest of the week _ .

After a moment, he jokingly adds,  _ Need anything? _

Bitty begins typing, then stops, starts, stops. Jack holds his breath. 

The little speech bubble on Bitty’s side of the app doesn’t reappear.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” says Jack softly, and pulls his hoodie over his head. When he comes up for air, Bitty’s response is waiting. __

_ I’d say “someone to weather the storm with,” but I understand if we’re not quite there yet. _

Jack sits down hard on the end of his bed, clutching his phone. He stares at himself in the large mirror over his dresser,which seemed like a great investment when a hyperawareness of every inch of his body was part of his job and now feels like a life-size mockery waiting for him to wake up every day. His reflection looks wide and lumpy and soft, his belly pressing against the thin fabric of his t-shirt and pooling in his lap. His arms are thick and pudgy, their definition half-gone, and his full cheeks and softening jawline, even under a fine layer of stubble, give him away as chubby-big and not just bulky-big, like he used to be. For most of his adult life, coaches and sportscasters and teammates have sung his body’s praises for how big it is — his hips, his thighs, his ass — but everything they used to celebrate is soft and doughy now, out of shape.

_ Nothing wrong with that _ , he tries to think, but it’s  _ hard _ . He can’t imagine that he’s what Bitty has in mind when he thinks of the anonymous stranger he’s been flirting with for the past three weeks.

But then, how does he imagine Bitty? Definitely Southern, though Jack hasn’t known enough Southern people to have a realistic expectation of how he might sound. Probably short, since his bio said something about not being able to reach high shelves. But maybe it was ironic? He’s not sure, now, if he  _ does  _ have a picture in his head. A voice, certainly. He wants to believe it wouldn’t make any difference to him what Bitty looks like. Jack’s not — other people’s looks don’t mean much to him. Some people are cute, sure, but they generally get a lot cuter when he gets to know them. 

He has a feeling that he'll find Bitty very, very cute.

_ Maybe we could call _ , he writes before he loses his nerve.  _ It wouldn’t be the same, but it would be — something _ .

He tosses his phone onto his bed as soon as he sends it, and busies himself anxiously pulling on his knee brace, a fresh pair of sweats, a flannel, a sweater, and big wool socks. He’s hunting for the gloves his parents sent last month, the ones with the smartphone-compatible fingertips, which he’s never had a use for until now, when his phone buzzes with Bitty’s reply.

_ I’d like that. _

Elated, Jack scoops the gloves off the radiator, jams his Montreal toque onto his head, and zips himself into his winter coat.  _ It’s a date _ , he neatly texts through his gloves, and steps outside his apartment for the first time in weeks only to trip over an unidentified foreign object in his doorway.

All of his internal organs cease to function as he realizes, steadying himself against the doorframe as his knee buckles, that the object is a large Tupperware full of muffins.

He begins to mumble about three different obscenities to himself in French, but they all collide before any of them can make it out of his mouth intact. Gingerly, tenderly, he gathers the plate off the floor, and as he’s turning to place them safely on his kitchen counter, he hears the door across the hall crack open.

Jack does not know his neighbors. He doesn’t live in the type of building where people make conversation at the mailboxes or say hello in the elevator, and he likes it that way. The expectation of small talk makes him anxious. So when a slight blond guy pokes his head out across the hall, Jack is one hundred percent positive he has never seen him before. 

“So  _ you’re  _ the mystery man!” says the guy, and his voice is like honey. It’s not the voice in Jack’s head — it’s higher, more energetic — but it’s the right shape, a smooth, buttery drawl. “You holding up all right in there? The muffins are just a little something to perk you up with all this lousy weather. No strings attached if you don’t want them!”

He keeps talking, and Jack’s heart bobs in limbo, flooded with the thrill of seeing  _ him _ , finally, without the pressure of having to react, and the relief that he’s the only mystery man in the picture. The rush is so much that for a moment he can barely see straight. 

“Thank you,” he manages finally, and Bitty beams.

“Enjoy them! There’s always more where that came from. I’ve been baking more than I can eat on my own over here!” He grins, full and bright, and Jack goes a little weak in the knees. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got some work stuff I need to get back to. Not to mention the pie in the oven! Come on over later if you’d like a slice. There’s plenty.”

He gives Jack a little wave and retreats behind his door, and Jack is left standing, sweating through four layers of winter wear, cradling the container of muffins like a lifeline.

He lets himself back into his apartment and sets the container on the counter, examining his options. He’s a creep if he doesn’t tell Bitty that he knows who he is. But if Bitty knows who  _ he  _ is — if he knows that there’s an actual body attached to the persona of JackOfNoTrades — he … might not want him.

_ But you have to be a master of at least one! _ Bitty had sent him to break the ice, way back when they’d started talking.  _ What’s one thing you’re good at? Mine is baking. I can turn some pastry and fruit into almost anything. _

Jack had deliberated over his answer for so long that when he opened the app, it refreshed itself.  _ I’m good at hockey _ , he had typed, but deleted it because it wasn’t true anymore.  _ I know a lot about history _ , he typed, but deleted it because it was so boring.  _ I’m good at being anxious _ , he typed ruefully, but that was so pathetic that he finally wrote,  _ I’m pretty decent at hockey _ , and hoped Bitty wouldn’t ask for details.

_ Hockey!!!  _ Bitty had messaged back. Jack’s stomach sank, and he’d buried his hand further into the bag of all-dressed chips he was demolishing like some sort of sad Canadian cliche.  _ I used to play a bit when I was younger, but I always preferred figure skating. Who do you root for? _

Now, Jack takes a deep breath. Squares up. Pretends this is some kind of emotional hockey game and he needs to make the check if he wants a chance at scoring. He can’t let Bitty exist right across the hall like this and  _ not  _ go for it. Not when Bitty’s been the first person in — well, years — to make him feel like he could be someone other than Jack Zimmermann, ex-hockey prodigy.

He sighs and rests his forehead against the cool steel of his apartment door. He needs to get better at rooting for himself. Like, a  _ lot  _ better.

He eases his apartment door open and steps out. Bitty’s door is less than ten feet away, but the distance feels monumental. He should have taken his coat off.

But he makes himself keep going, and psyches himself up one, two, three times before he knocks, and then he stands, hands shoved into his pockets, sucking his belly in, anxiety starting to bubble in his stomach like a shaken-up soda. Strains of upbeat pop music drift through the door, and it makes Jack smile in spite of himself.

Bitty yanks the door open, and Jack feels the smile fall off his face. He forces it back on. God, his palms are sweating. Why is he still wearing these stupid gloves?

“Oh, hey!” chirps Bitty. He’s so tiny. Jack didn’t expect him to be so tiny. “You’re back!”

“Yeah,” says Jack, a little hoarse. “I — I wanted to introduce myself.”

Bitty sticks out a hand. “Oh, yeah, I didn’t get your name! I’m Eric, but you can call me Bitty, everyone who’s not my parents or my MooMaw does. Eric  _ Bittle _ ,  _ Bitty _ , plus, you know, being so dang short … it’s Bitty.”

_ Eric.  _ Jack pulls off a glove and shakes his hand, feeling lightheaded. “I’m Jack,” he says slowly.

“Well, nice to meet you, Jack,” says Bitty with a warm smile. “If you ever —”

“OfNoTrades,” says Jack at the speed of light, and Bitty freezes.

“What was that, now?”

“I’m, uh,” says Jack, studying his boots. “Jack. OfNoTrades. On Lil. I think you — I didn’t know — I didn’t want to — I had to say something when I realized.”

“ _ Jack _ ?” says Bitty, a little — surprised? taken aback? Jack isn’t sure. “Oh, Lord. I’ve been here almost three months! How has it taken us this long to figure this out?”

Jack’s cheeks go warm. “I don’t go out much,” he admits, unzipping his jacket a few inches. Thank God he kept everything on. Maybe Bitty will think he’s just bulky because it’s five degrees outside. “So I guess I also have to introduce myself as your mystery man. I am, in fact, alive.”

“And Lord, am I glad to see it!” says Bitty. His cheeks are pink. “Well, I would have started bringing pies and such a long time ago if I’d known it was you cooped up in there.” He clears his throat, looks Jack up and down. Jack wills his molecular structure to shift so he’ll look a little smaller.

For a moment they just look. Bitty is maybe six inches shorter than Jack, with dark, wide eyes, and he’s solid — Jack wouldn’t call him chubby exactly, but he’s also definitely not thin. He settles on “hard to tip over” and decides it’s his favorite body shape. 

Bitty fidgets in the doorway, scuffing one of his moccasin house slippers against the wood floor. “I know you’re heading out — and I’m still technically at work — but maybe … no sense in calling tonight if we’re just across the hall, is there?”

Jack’s heart full-out stops, worst nightmares taking hold. “So you don’t want to?” he asks, fighting the urge to take a step backward, again and again until he’s safely back in his own apartment. This is what he gets for venturing out. “I mean, that’s fine. We don’t have to. We can just —”

“No, no!” says Bitty, waving his hands frantically. “No! I do want to! But it’s silly to call, isn’t it, when you could come over for dinner?”

Jack’s exhale almost knocks him over. “ _ Oh _ !” he says. “Um. Yes. I would like that. Can I pick anything up? I’m, uh, not much of a cook.”

“No, no!” says Bitty. “I’ve got it all taken care of. Do you eat meat? Gluten? Dairy? Anything you  _ don’t  _ eat?”

Instinctively, Jack sucks in. “I’ll eat pretty much anything.”

Bitty claps his hands together. “It’s a date, then,” he says, and it is  _ bewildering  _ to Jack how much this situation has escalated since he typed that exact sentence fifteen minutes ago. 

—

It’s the most thrilling, most harrowing trip to the grocery store Jack has ever taken. He feels bulky and huge in his winter clothes, lumbering through the aisles and grabbing things without really thinking about them, his mind firmly entrenched in Bitty. In the fitted green button-down and snug jeans he was wearing, the compact stockiness of his body, the swoop of his blond hair. Bitty is small and put-together and perky. Jack is big and anxious and … a mess.

But Bitty is  _ real _ , and Jack can still barely wrap his head around it. Bitty is  _ a real person  _ who lives across the hall, and he’s  _ cute _ , and he wants Jack to  _ come to dinner _ .

He doesn’t want to show up empty-handed, but the cold is wreaking havoc on his knee and if he wants to take a painkiller when he gets home he definitely cannot bring wine, and he has absolute faith that Bitty has dinner and dessert covered. Instead, he picks the fanciest bottle of sparkling water he can find, but that feels boring, so he chooses a peach-infused one because Bitty is from Georgia. 

As he’s standing in line, the little florist section of the grocery store catches his eye, and even though he’s next up and there’s a mile of people clutching their bread and milk behind him, he ducks out of line and deliberates over flowers for Bitty. This  _ is  _ technically a first date, after all. 

He chooses the most summery bouquet he can find, bursting with orange lilies, pink Gerber daisies, golden sunflowers, little bits of purple irises and greenery peeking through. He’s concerned for their safety on the snowy walk home, so he pauses in the grocery store’s foyer and unzips his parka enough to tuck them inside. It’s a tight squeeze, but he figures it’ll keep the bouquet from jostling around too much and getting squished.

It’s an awkward walk home, with his knee twinging, the flowers’ cellophane rustling impatiently in his coat, and the uncomfortable sensation of his stomach jiggling with each uneven step he takes to favor his knee or adjust for the snow. By the time he makes it back to his apartment, he’s sweating through his t-shirt and into his flannel, and his eyebrows and eyelashes are crusted with snow, but when he removes the flowers from his coat, they’re in perfect condition.

When he checks his phone, his fingers still cold, there are four new messages from Bitty:  _ Hey neighbor! Looking forward to seeing your sweet face in person tonight. 6:30 all right? I thought I’d make us some nice Southern comfort food to keep us warm during this storm.  _

Jack googles “Southern comfort food” to see what it’s in for, and the answer seems to be: a frightening amount of butter. Every picture he scrolls past makes his mouth water, and he palms the curve of his stomach. He’s not real big on eating in front of other people, especially things that aren’t — diet foods. He’s learned to soldier through it in front of his parents, and his teammates, and some friends from college, but generally speaking, it’s a no. He can feel the infinite spirograph of anxiety unfolding from the pit of his stomach just thinking about it, each shape unfolding higher than the last until it prickles at the back of his throat. Bitty is a  _ food person _ . He can afford to be, he’s so little. If Jack were that enthusiastic about food,  _ especially _ desserts, he would definitely get looks.

He has a couple of Bitty’s muffins for lunch and manages to keep himself from overeating, but it’s tough with so much restless energy on his hands, and the muffins are also  _ insanely  _ good. They have a crumb topping Jack would eat with a spoon if given the chance, and they’re filled with a bright burst of lemon curd. He picks apart a third one one-handed as he steadies an ice pack on his bad knee. He should dig his truck out, he thinks, use some of this nervous energy productively so he doesn’t have to hobble down to the store every week, but his fear of falling is too much to face while he’s also anxious about dinner with Bitty. One thing at a time, he tells himself, wincing as he stretches his leg out straight. Fear of rejection,  _ then  _ fear of falling.

He still has a couple hours to kill, and by now he’s burned through most of the books and puzzles and documentaries he’s acquired — himself or from his parents — to keep himself busy while his knee recovered, but he makes himself sit in front of a couple episodes of  _ Five Came Back  _ that he’s already seen while he frets about what to wear. Better to go casual with a nice shirt under an open flannel? It might make him look slimmer. He wishes he could get away with just a flannel, but his flannels strain at best and refuse to button at worst. Maybe a nice sweater? 

He takes his tiny dose of painkiller because the ice pack isn’t cutting it, showers, and avoids the mirror until he can’t anymore. His stubble is rounding the corner from “acceptable” to “scruffy,” and now that he knows Bitty kind of thinks of him as a hermit, he’d prefer to make an impression that’s a little more attractive than Rip Van Winkle reentering the dating sphere after twenty years of sleep. Even if that kind of  _ is  _ how Jack feels.

“There’s nothing wrong with how you look,” he tries half-heartedly into the mirror. “You look great.”

Through the haze of post-shower steam, his reflection is all blurry edges and half-obscured lines. He wishes he could be perceived like this, more the suggestion of a body than anything concrete, just a vague association of a person to house his personality. That would make everything so much easier. 

As the steam dissipates, his body grows clearer, and he tries again: “There’s nothing wrong with how you look.” 

He takes in the curves of his body, the softness of his back and shoulders, the bulges of fat at the tops of his arms, the swell of his pecs. The stretch marks denoting, from his biceps to his belly to his thighs, where his body has gained the most. The plush pile of his stomach, the flat dip of his navel, the soft line of his sides as they swell toward his hips. He tries to see it all with new eyes, without his bias of knowing that once, not that long ago, he was in perfect shape. His belly is sort of endearing, maybe. He looks … sturdy. He would make a nice pillow to snuggle with. He could keep someone warm.

Gently, he pinches a handful of his belly, then smooths his hand over its expanse. Maybe Bitty will think that  _ this  _ is the perfect shape. Maybe Bitty is so deeply a dessert person that his type is people who look like they don’t exist on grilled chicken and broccoli. 

Jack doesn’t miss existing on grilled chicken and broccoli, but he misses being sure his clothes are going to fit. Buying new ones means seeing a number, and while numbers used to be reassuring — calorie counts, stats, standings, reps — they make him anxious now. 

He eyes his jeans with apprehension. Years of having a hockey body have made him used to buying pants a size or two up to fit his ass and thighs, but given that both of those — not to mention his waistline — are significantly softer and wider than they used to be, he’s skeptical of whether or not they’ll fit at all. He steps in carefully, closing his eyes in anticipation, and works the fabric up over the swell of his backside. He wriggles a little, his stomach wobbling with the motion, and he bites his lip. They’re snug, but if he can just — 

He fumbles with both sides of the fly under his belly, trying to feel for the buttonhole. It’s unclear when, in the past few months’ whirlwind of sweatpants, big hoodies, and hiding himself under blankets that he stopped being able to see the button of his jeans, but he’s not a fan. 

Sucking in as much as he can, he manages to get the button done up under his belly with a huff. He exhales, and although his stomach strains against the waistband, the button holds firm. It’s not the most comfortable, but he  _ can’t  _ show up for a date wearing sweatpants, and he’s at least confident that there’s enough spandex in these jeans to keep anything embarrassing from happening. 

He picks out a charcoal-gray sweater that brings out his eyes, or so he’s been told. It’s large enough to cover his belly, even if it’s a little clingy, and he feels safe and comfortable wearing it, even with the pinch of his jeans around his waist.

Just in case, he does a few cautious squats before leaving, hesitantly testing the limits of the denim, hoping to loosen the fabric a little. It works, sort of, even if it makes his knee twinge with strain and his heart with anticipation, and when he straightens up to grab the chilled sparkling water and flowers, he feels slightly less like he’s bracing for impact.

When he’d first seen Bitty’s personal ad on the app, he’d admired the amount of personality Bitty had managed to cram into a few sentences. His own ad seemed dull in comparison, but then Bitty had messaged him  _ first. _

**_SouthernSweetness15:_ ** _ 25yo Georgia transplant seeking sous chef, cuddles, or just some company. Adventurous appetites prioritized, and I do mean that strictly in terms of food! Will gladly provide all the baked goods you can eat in exchange for cozy movie nights, spontaneous dance parties, and reaching the high shelves in my kitchen. Picky eaters need not apply. _

**_JackOfNoTrades:_ ** _ 28yo introvert looking for a twenty-first-century pen pal. Not great at texting or social media. Also not very good at talking. I like photography, winter sports, and going to bed early. Yes, I have been called an old man before. No, this is not a new and funny joke. _

Later, after they’d gotten to know each other some, Bitty told him that his ad matched his personality exactly.  _ What, boring?  _ Jack had replied, and Bitty’s response, too fast to allow for any anxiety on Jack’s end, was what had made him really start to fall.

_ Not boring! Understated. A little self-deprecating. A little old-fashioned, but owning it. I liked that you didn’t try to sound like anyone but who you were. (And in case you can’t tell, I really like who you are.) _

Jack thinks about that now, the sparkling water and flowers cool in his hands. He takes a deep breath, resists the urge to tug at his sweater, the urge to panic-text and cancel, the urge to bury himself in bed rather than make himself any kind of vulnerable with someone he likes.

“Okay,” he says aloud. “Let’s do this.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws again in this chapter for body image issues and negative body thoughts/talk, but less so than the previous chapter.

Bitty’s apartment is so … _Bitty_ . It’s full of warm colors and soft textures and kitchen gadgets _everywhere_. The layout is mirrored from Jack’s apartment, the kitchen on the left instead of the right, the living room reaching back to a window with more sun than Jack’s, but less view. The walls are covered with photographs and colorful framed art pieces depicting what looks like every dessert imaginable. Jack’s apartment is full of grays and blues, sleek modern furniture his parents helped pick out. 

Bitty is rummaging around in his cabinets for a vase, exclaiming about how gorgeous the flowers are and how sweet it was for Jack to bring them. He’s wearing the same button-down and jeans from earlier, but now with the addition of a navy cardigan that Jack finds irresistibly adorable. The whole apartment smells like fried chicken and baked goods, a lemony green sharpness cutting through the warmth, and as Jack pours them each sparkling water into the mismatched college logo glasses Bitty took out, he thinks about how deeply his space radiates _calmness_. Jack feels at home almost nowhere off the ice, but he could imagine feeling at home here.

He screws the cap back onto the sparkling water, grateful for something to do with his hands. It’s so strange to be on a first date with someone he knows so much about already — in a way it eliminates the need for small talk, but he isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to say. They hugged when Jack came in, a sort-of-awkward gesture that pressed Bitty right up to Jack’s sucked-in belly, and Jack is still adjusting to thinking of Bitty as a real person with an apartment and a kitchen and a life that he’s somehow stumbled into.

Bitty pops back up from the cabinet, triumphantly clutching a cut-glass vase. “I knew this one from MooMaw would come in handy!” he says. “How was the supermarket? I’ve been stockpiling baking essentials for weeks so I don’t have to go, but I’m starting to run dangerously low on yeast.”

“What are you making with yeast?” Jack asks, sipping his water. He’s not much for baking, but he’s pretty sure there’s no yeast in pie crusts.

Bitty goes red and busies himself clipping the bouquet stems until they fit in the vase. “I might have been thinking about leaving some homemade cinnamon buns at your door tomorrow morning.”

Jack’s chest goes warm. “You don’t have to do that.”

Bitty grins at him, and suddenly the heat in the kitchen seems to rise twenty degrees. “I keep my people well-fed, mister. You’re not exempt.”

Jack’s cheeks flame, and he sucks in a moment before catching himself. Bitty can _see_ him. He knows Jack is fat. He hasn’t seemed to mind yet.

He clears his throat. “Well,” he says, “I wouldn’t say no.”

Bitty catches his gaze and holds it, and Jack feels like his whole body is pressed against a griddle. He’s — it’s been a long time since anyone got his hopes up. A long time since anything but hockey made him feel like this.

The granite countertop is cool under Jack’s hands, and he braces himself against it. He watches Bitty move around the kitchen, a carefully paced dance that favors all the lower shelves and cabinets, and finds himself wishing something were higher up so he could be useful. So he could show Bitty that in real life, as well as in a month-long ribbon of text messages, he’s exactly the right person for him.

The oven dings, and Bitty lights up. “I hope you’re hungry!” he says, slipping oven mitts on. “I may have, uh, gone a little overboard with the menu. But I can send you home with a plate or two!”

Unconsciously, Jack palms his stomach. _Mon Dieu,_ he mouths when Bitty’s back is turned. There go these jeans.

— 

Bitty is not kidding about going overboard. Jack isn’t sure what he was expecting, even after his cursory Google search — he just didn’t expect Bitty to be able to whip up a full meal, including, like, four different sides — with only a few hours’ notice. Wasn’t he _at work_?

They’re crammed at Bitty’s little two-top, Jack’s knees brushing the underside of the table. There isn’t enough surface area for all the serving dishes — the chicken, the cornbread, the greens, the mac and cheese, the mashed potatoes — so Bitty has configured a sort of buffet line across his kitchen counter. It reminds Jack of holidays, somehow. Cozy and over-the-top in a celebratory way. He bets — well, he _knows_ , from a month of talking to Bitty almost nonstop — that even small occasions are celebratory for Bitty. A couple of weeks ago, he sent Jack a picture of a bottle of champagne and a single glass with a string of party-horn emojis, and Jack had guessed, _Promotion? Birthday? Not moving again, are you?_

 _Nope!_ Bitty had answered cheerfully, and then the second photo rolled in: _Successfully laminated my first-ever batch of croissants!!!!_

Bitty’s Southern comfort food, too, is worthy of celebration. Jack nearly swoons over his first bite of fried chicken, and has to manually redirect himself from making an embarrassing sound. He repositions self-consciously. There also isn’t enough surface area on Bitty’s IKEA chairs for all of Jack’s butt, and he keeps squirming, trying to keep as much of himself on the seat as possible. This better not be some cosmic metaphor about not fitting into Bitty’s life, he thinks fretfully, shoving another bite of chicken into his mouth. That’s too cruel.

“Good?” asks Bitty, leaning forward a little. Mouth full, Jack nods vigorously.

“This is amazing,” he tells Bitty. “I figured you were good, from the pictures, but — _oh la vache_ , it’s incredible. Do you cook like this all the time?”

Bitty is grinning across the table. “Your accent,” he says, and Jack blushes. “No, I like it! I didn’t expect you to have an accent! It’s a nice surprise.”

“ _Tu es meilleur_ ,” says Jack softly, and he can tell he’s safe from Bitty’s unaffected affectionate stare. “It means, uh, the food is great,” he lies, and Bitty beams.

“I tried taking French in college,” he says, “but it just didn’t take! My gender studies classes did, though. I swear I don’t go a day in marketing without thinking of this one essay about the dang male gaze.”

“I’ve read that,” says Jack, like he’s remembering a past life. “I minored in gender studies. ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’?”

“No way!” says Bitty, delighted. “What got you into that?”

Jack shrugs. “I needed an elective, and one of my friends was taking this class about gender and warfare that sounded kinda cool, so I took it with him figuring it would be interesting if nothing else. I had no idea I would actually end up loving it.”

“Lord,” sighs Bitty, scooping up a forkful of mac and cheese. “He’s cute _and_ he minored in gender studies. You just keep getting better, you know that?”

Jack goes red, moving mashed potatoes around his plate. “I bet you say that to all the boys who took gender studies,” he says, and Bitty laughs. 

“Oh, hush. Eat up instead of chirping me. Can I get you anything?”

Jack glances down at his plate. It’s still mostly full, neglected for talking. His stomach makes a yearning kind of sound, and he squirms again, hoping Bitty didn’t catch it. He didn’t really eat lunch. He should eat now. He _should_. He wants to. But — this is so much food to eat in front of someone else. 

“I’m okay,” he says. “Just — slow eater.”

But then Bitty gets to talking about growing up in the South, and how figure skating and playing hockey made him think more critically about gender roles, and it’s easier to eat while someone’s talking. He likes listening to Bitty, likes the way his cadence curls and twists. Jack’s been told that his own accent is spiky, jagged where “real French” is smooth, but Bitty’s accent is like ice cream in summer, or the warm, soft press of a hug. He likes the words Bitty chooses, the way his enthusiasm bleeds into everything he says. Jack keeps that same kind of passion tightly coiled in his core, but Bitty lets it suffuse his whole self. 

Jack cleans his plate. He gets up for seconds when Bitty does. And when Bitty offers him thirds with a vaguely starstruck look in his eyes, he accepts, even though his stomach is straining uncomfortably at his jeans. He wonders if he can unbutton them without Bitty noticing, if he has enough belly for that. 

“So,” says Bitty after a moment, as Jack digs in, “I have to confess something.”

Jack looks up, all of his doomsday protocols engaging. “Okay?”

“I Googled you,” says Bitty, burying his face in his hands. “Sorry. I knew your last name from the mailboxes, and once I knew you were … _you_ , like my you, I couldn’t help it.”

 _My you_. Jack coughs. “And?”

“A lot of things made sense,” Bitty admits. “Your secrecy, how you never seem to be at work, how cagey you always got when we talked about hockey. I’m so sorry. It was just — I had to make sure I hadn’t accidentally invited a serial killer into my apartment, you know?”

Jack laughs, but his brain is just playing back _My you_ on a thundering loop. “No, I understand,” he says. “It’s okay. I just — I come with a lot of baggage. And it’s a lot to drop on someone you haven’t even met yet. So it was easier to just … keep it to myself. But I don’t care if you know, as long as it isn’t weird for you.”

“No, no!” says Bitty adamantly. “I already had enough pieces in place to know I liked you. This is all just … background.”

He reaches tentatively across the table, and Jack swallows his last bite of cornbread and meets him halfway. 

“So you still like me?” he asks, and Bitty nods.

“Oh, _very_ much, sweetpea,” he says, and Jack goes warm all over. 

— 

He’s _so_ full, shouldn’t-have-let-Bitty-sweet-talk-him-into-a-third-helping full, but he helps with the dishes because that’s what you do. His stomach is pulling him forward, and against his will he lets himself rest it on the counter while he dries dishes and lets Bitty tell him where to put things. There’s only enough to rest a little bit anyway. 

Despite the weight in his stomach, he feels so much more at ease now that he’s not hiding anything. Bitty’s demeanor hasn’t shifted, except into more hockey talk than usual, and Jack can work with that. Jack can talk hockey all day, and Bitty is a good banterer, and he finds himself laughing full-out for the first time in months, bracing a hand against his belly when it twinges.

Bitty hands him the last dish, and Jack dries it diligently. When he steps toward the oven to slip the dishtowel back over the handle, Bitty steps the same way, and they collide, Bitty’s small, solid body warm against Jack’s.

“Hi,” says Jack, letting his hands graze Bitty’s hips. They’re so close that Jack’s stomach brushes against Bitty’s, 

“Hi,” says Bitty, looking up at him. “Should we … maybe move the night to my couch? There’s still pie, but we could take a breather first?”

Jack instinctively panics a little, because for some people couch = touching = sex stuff, but then he remembers that, like so many others things about him, Bitty already knows how he feels about sex stuff, and he won’t have to awkwardly bust it out in the middle of making out, like he’s had to in the past. Bitty knows. Bitty has been very cool about it. 

_Whatever you need, sweetheart_ , he had said when Jack told him, lying flat on his back in the dark at 2am. _You wanna take it slow, we’ll take it slow. You never wanna do anything but hug me, I’ll give you the best hugs of your life_. 

Jack lets Bitty lead him by the hand to his soft, lumpy green couch and sinks down, stifling a little sound of relief at the pressure it takes off his stomach. He swallows a burp and inches himself toward Bitty, trying to casually stretch an arm around his shoulders without looking, like, _too_ casual. But Bitty gets it right away, and scoots under Jack’s bicep, the sturdy shape of him warm and steady against Jack’s soft side.

“Just let me know what’s good for you,” he murmurs, and before Jack can ask what he means, Bitty gets a little closer, and then a little closer, and Jack _gets it_.

Bitty cups a hand around the back of Jack’s head and kisses him, and it’s a breath of spring air on a day that feels too early to be so warm. A warm shower after a brisk morning run. The breathless freedom of running for the first time in too long. He gathers Bitty into his arms and pulls him closer, then pushes him back, toward the arm of the couch, getting a little on top of him. This used to be a good move when he was thinner. He’s not sure how it works now, and he holds his breath as he tries to arrange himself in a way that won’t crush Bitty.

“Tell me if this hurts,” he says, and Bitty shakes his head, so Jack kisses him again, laying a little more of his weight on him.

“You won’t squish me,” says Bitty, thumbing at Jack’s lower lip. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

He traces the curve of Jack’s stomach where it’s just sort of hanging between them, swollen and bloated with Southern food and butter, then follows the lines of his sides down to his hips. Jack holds himself so still, easing down on top of him.

“I used to be in better shape,” he says apologetically, and Bitty makes a face.

“I think you’re in perfect shape.”

Jack wants so badly for it to be true. “Really?”

Bitty tousles Jack’s hair, then palms at his belly, slipping two fingers beneath his sweater and teasing at the thin fabric of his undershirt. “Really. I like a little extra. Abs are overrated.”

Jack exhales beside him, his stomach lapping onto Bitty’s. “I get that for other people. It’s just hard to get for … me.”

Bitty settles his hand back into Jack’s hair, and Jack could pass out from how nice it feels to just be touched so affectionately.

“If there’s anything I’ve learned from advertising — besides how widely applicable that Laura Mulvey essay is — it’s that perfect bodies, diet culture, it’s all just a marketing ploy. It isn’t going to change your life or make you magically love your body. Trust me, I bought into it for years. Figure skating is a mess of eating disorders and body dysmorphia. I used to look at old pictures and think, ‘If I could just get down to that weight again, everything would be better.’ But then I started thinking about it, and … I wasn’t really happier when those pictures were taken. Even when I was tiny, I was still thinking about being smaller. There’s no real endpoint, you know? It just goes on and on and you get more and more miserable.”

Jack thinks about this, settling against the back of the couch. He does the same thing, looking at pictures from the prime of his hockey career and thinking that if he just weighed 200 pounds again, he’d be fine. Everything would fix itself. He’d be less anxious. Less antisocial. Less mad at himself. But … he’s been thinking that way as long as he can remember. When he was 200 pounds, wishing he were 190. When he was 190, wishing he were 180. Before that. Bitty’s right, he realizes. It never stops. 

“And now,” says Bitty with a contented little laugh, “I couldn’t fit into my college clothes if you paid me. I was so tiny! And I was so stressed about it. But then I stopped figure skating, and I gained a little weight, and the world didn’t end, and I went to therapy, and … it’s amazing what just framing it differently can do. Am I thin? No. But I’m a lot happier with my body than I’ve ever been before.”

Jack rests his chin against Bitty’s head. “I’m sorry you went through that,” he says softly. “I struggle with that too. I should probably go back to therapy.”

They’ve discussed therapy, fleetingly, in messages. Jack fell off the wagon when he got deep into hockey, struggled to make time around the season. He meant to call and start up again before his knee surgery, but … that hasn’t happened. He should call. It would get him out of the house.

“Well,” says Bitty softly, “I think you’re lovely. And I know that might not be much, but it’s one thing you don’t have to worry about with me.”

“Okay, well,” says Jack, “I decided earlier that if I had a type, it would be you, so you don’t have to worry about that either.”

Bitty laughs. Jack can feel it in his own chest. “Oh, come here,” he says, and Jack leans in.

It’s so novel not to have to worry about so many of the things he usually worries about on first dates. Bitty’s hands don’t slide any lower than his straining waistband, except to palm at the underside of Jack’s belly and murmur about how much he likes a man who appreciates food. It’s so novel that it doesn’t make Jack immediately self-conscious of how much he ate, because Bitty was _so_ encouraging earlier, not a sideways remark or disparaging look to be found. It’s so novel that twenty-four hours ago, he was lying alone in his apartment, staring at a screen and wishing he were brave enough to do something, and now he’s lying here with Bitty in his arms, doing it.

Bitty is a slow, enthusiastic kisser, and handsy, but not in a way that Jack minds. His hands are firm but gentle, no shyness or hesitation. He tracks the curves of Jack’s sides, grabs soft handfuls of his stomach, strokes through Jack’s hair and braces his hands on Jack’s shoulders and chest. When Jack rolls all the way on top of him, he opens his arms and catches him, his hands meeting at the small of Jack’s back, holding him firm. One hand wanders, briefly, to squeeze at Jack’s ass, but he yanks it back when Jack stifles a laugh.

“What?” says Bitty, and Jack shakes his head.

“I just forgot that people actually do like big butts.”

Bitty laughs, too, against Jack. “You have a great butt. And I like big all of you.”

He punctuates it with a long, lingering kiss that makes Jack dizzy. He likes that Bitty doesn’t dance around it. He doesn’t say _You’re not fat_ or _You’re only a little chubby_ or any of the other platitudes people use when they don’t want to call someone big. All of him _is_ big, and hearing Bitty acknowledge it openly makes him feel that much more like it’s not something to be ashamed of. He’s been at a loss for so long for how to be anything but apologetic about his body. _Sorry it’s not how it used to be_. But here, with proof positive that at least one person out there likes — doesn’t just tolerate, _likes_ — his body this way, he can see that maybe that’s impermanent. Not everyone wants him to apologize for it. Maybe one day, he won’t, either.

“Will you still make me cinnamon buns in the morning?” he whispers between kisses. “I’ll even do the dishes, if you want.”

“Depends,” Bitty replies, thumbing at Jack’s jaw. “Will you let me feed you pie later? It’s apple-cranberry.”

Jack nods deeply. “Oh, absolutely.”

And then everything goes dark.

“Oh,” says Jack, tightening his hold on Bitty like he might disappear with the power.

“Must be the storm,” says Bitty through the dark. “Are the radiators here electric?” 

“Uhhhh,” says Jack, buffering. His stomach protests a little as he shifts position, and in the sudden, sightless black, he reaches down and subtly undoes the button on his jeans, exhales as his belly swells out gratefully. “No idea. Maybe?”

Bitty cuddles closer to him. “I might need you to keep me warm, sweetheart,” he says. “I’m not prepared for these Northeast winters.”

“I really like when you say that,” says Jack, dropping a kiss where he approximates Bitty’s forehead is. “Sweetheart.”

Bitty feels for his face in the dark, and Jack laughs as his hands poke at his cheeks, his nose. “There you are. Was that a _yes, you’ll stay_ ? I know you’ve got _such_ a long trek home, and I’d _hate_ for you to have to face the cold …” 

Jack laughs. “Sure, I’ll stay,” he says, and they kiss for a long moment in the pitch-black, and he thinks that this is a little bit how it’s felt all along, just two voices in the dark, calling out for each other, the buzz of text messages to prove their presence instead of the soft sturdiness of their bodies overlapping. 

“Perfect,” says Bitty happily, thumbing at the slice of skin where Jack’s undershirt has come untucked. His hands are warm and gentle, and Jack lets himself relax into the touch. 

And then Bitty’s hand grazes his undone fly, and Jack can practically _hear_ his eyebrows shoot up.

“What’s happening here, mister?”

“ _Listen_ ,” says Jack, but he’s laughing. “I’m so full. You really know how to feed a guy, you know that?”

“Do I know that!” says Bitty, faux-indignant. “I didn’t invite you over here to send you home hungry, honey. I told you, I keep my people fed.”

Jack leans in and kisses his neck, and Bitty makes a _delicious_ little sound. “I really like being one of your people.”

“If the power’s back tomorrow,” says Bitty, “I promise you all the cinnamon buns you can eat. And as much pie as you want tonight, too, if you can just …”

“If I can just what?”

“All of my extra candles,” says Bitty sheepishly. “They’re on the top shelf of the cabinet above the stove.”

In the darkness, Jack grins wider than he has in months. “I got you,” he says, and he goes to get the candles.

**Author's Note:**

> some resources if you or someone you know is struggling with an eating disorder, body dysmorphia/dysmorphic disorder, body image or food issues:  
> [National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA)](https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/)  
> [Multi-service Eating Disorders Association (MEDA)](https://www.medainc.org/)  
> ** I also follow NEDA on [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/neda/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/nedastaff), and MEDA on [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/medafounder/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/MEDAFOUNDER) as well! they've been providing some really great, helpful resources for managing EDs and relationships with food during the pandemic.
> 
> if you or someone you know is struggling with mental health or substance abuse issues, the [Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration](https://www.samhsa.gov/find-help/national-helpline) helpline is 1-800-662-HELP (4357). please take care of yourself in this very difficult time! you matter and you are valuable.
> 
> thank you so much for reading!! as always, it means a lot to me that you are here.


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